The Breaking Point
by Mind Holds The Key
Summary: "Mycroft had warned me that this would happen to Sherlock. And I was a fool to think that the genius Holmes wasn't right." Drug abuse, neglect, dark. Set after The Great Game.
1. Open your Eyes

Chapter 1- Open your EyesTitle inspiration comes from the song Open your Eyes by Jesse Glick, supposedly the opening to Episode 5 of Season 1 in White Collar- Good song. It's not all emo sounding or anything annoying. The guys good and he hardly gains attention, I think you should give it a listen.

Please tell me what you think (about the story so far).

**Best read in 1/2 story width fanfiction page layout.**

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><p>I didn't think that I'd ever feel this way again.<p>

The sensation of my heart lodged in my throat as I looked to the man, with my full attention.

There I stood, at the door of our flat, after climbing those steep lightly spiraled stairs, ready to head to my room a floor up to get my phone off the bed, - which I had forgotten in my haste of getting dressed to leave the house briefly for some cereal and milk for today's breakfast-, when there, in the main room where he usually dwelled, lay the genius mind on the sofa, all too familiar in his usual dressy attire, his suit coat tossed elsewhere as he just sported slacks and a button up dark lavender long sleeve.

Of course, an all too natural scene.

I had figured through light observation, that when the man was moving too much in thought, by laying down, -due to his lack of nutrition, thanks to his abusive mannerisms during a case, nearly starving himself to death at some points-,I assumed it was his way of conserving his bodies energy- the rare amount that somehow remained.

But there were many unusual things about his tall and strong body, despite him being who he is.

Turning my body to face the main room, the front door always open during the day, perhaps was overnight since he didn't seem to change, just stay in the room dwelling in his thoughts as he lay in the sofa, I slowly walked in, eyes curious, observant, as I approached the man, along with his surroundings.

Once it clicked, I rushed to him, eyes wide."Sherlock?" I called out, quickly, but lightly as well, hushed, as if Mrs. Hudson was around, hiding in the kitchen or something.

When I got no response, cupping his cheeks, looking into the closed lidded eyes of the man, I tried again. "Sherlock!" My brows furrowed.

I didn't ask for a response, but rather demanded it, shaking his face lightly as my hands repressed from going rough and probably bruising his most likely easily marked skin, since he was obviously anemic.

I shook my head, not caring to think of such things as I further examined the scenario.

Mycroft had warned me, I reminded myself as I gingerly held the wrist to his arm that dangled off the side of the couch, marks all too fresh, checking his pulse.

It was there, but barely. Slow. I had to hold my breath to steady my hand as I checked his heartbeat over mine, which loudly beat in a pacing rhythm against my ear drums.

I growled his name in irritation and concern, more over disappointed, as I picked up an empty syringe, ignoring the one that was halfway full beside. My mind went blank, and I had found myself staring at the empty one.

This was not good. Well, if I was correct, then it was certainly not good.

Nearly slamming the glass needle to the ground, I grabbed his arm again, and checked for torn flesh, not the ones he had just done, but if there were any from previous days, weeks, maybe months- and if to that extent, then shame on me for not noticing.

I further rolled his sleeve- away from the ones that caught my eyes soon after the needles, and checked for any marks about his elbow. None.

It was a brief relief when I realized that he had perhaps only injected enough to not entirely end his life. Checking the other arm, I noticed his was a clean slate as well.

But that wasn't entirely good news- because that meant he had returned to drugs, and didn't hold back.

Like an alcoholic who doesn't drink for seven years and has the confidence to down a bottle of highly proof vodka, convincing themselves they can manage.

He had taken more then he could handle, and that was obvious in itself.

When Mycroft had told me of Sherlock's little drug habit, he further chided that the reason he was telling me in the first place, was because he was noting things that I, the rather new flat mate, couldn't possibly know.

He had explained that it was after meeting Moriarty at the pool for the first time- Sherlock's loss of self, progressively.

Mycroft had went through Sherlock's history, explaining things that I hardly expected Sherlock would succumb to over the feeling of loss.

The first time it happened, the older explained, was after the death of their mother, it having traumatizing effects on the younger Holmes. The second time was when he had failed to stretch out a case entirely.

No doubt, I concluded, this time was the loss in this ridiculous game with Moriarty on their first go.

I couldn't really place why, however, this would be the result from what Mycroft had explained, this would happen when Sherlock was usually stuck in his thoughts, or when he hadn't eaten or slept enough to power his mind, to make audible words from his running thoughts, he would use the drugs as a stimulant, to power his, as he would say, 'rotting brain'.

My eyes scanned his pale face, blue lips, as I quickly dialed for an ambulance, not having the proper tools in our home for a heroin overdose.

I hadn't realized how shaken I was until I found myself pacing the room, one hand holding the cell phone to my ear, the other ruffling the back of my hair, eyes looking past everything, as if all that existed was the and his name, address, situation, and current state of Sherlock, the usual. I had demanded they go past not believing me when I confirmed that I was a doctor. They wanted me to stay on the line, but I hung up, tossing the phone aside as I rushed back to Sherlock, sitting on one knee by the sofa, further observing his depleting current damp with sweat along the edge of his forehead and jaw line. His complexion was paler then before. I could only guess it was because he had taken this with nothing in his stomach, kind of like drinking with an empty stomach, the burning feeling in you esophagus, hitting you hard minutes later compared to when you were well, or intermediately fed a few hours prior."Sherlock." I tried again, my voice loud enough for him to hear at our proximity. But I got nothing in return, not even an aggressive grunt and demand that I let him rest.

No, he had reached the state beyond fighting that comforting need for rest, that moment when you fight to keep the person awake with light conversation and ridiculous questions that seemed fitting in their ruined state of mind.

I rose a single hand, cupping his lightly sweaty cheek, checking for his temperature as I turned it to place the back of my hand against his forehead. He had no brows furrowed, grabbing hold of his hand. He was cold, really cold, for it being the beginning of fall in a lightly cooled down flat, something I failed to notice when I first took hold of his wrist.

I brought my hand up, slapping him against the cheek lightly, glaring but determined- I could tell by the vibrato in my words-, but it was hardly man's eye rolled lightly behind closed lids- and I was about to believe myself for a fool if he just stirred awake and asked me what I was doing, ignoring the needles and the scene in itself- but that wasn't what , his brows just rose lightly and lowered, a small groan at the back of his throat, but then he settled again.

I yelled in my head, cruel words that I wanted to shout at him, but instead I shut off the emotional attachment and went back to what I should do as a doctor. The ambulance would be here at any moment.

I put my ear close in his direction. Shallow breathing. Pulling away I took my thumb and rose a lid over an eye, checking for pupil dilation, and sure enough, they were pinpoint. If I had never seen this before, I might have been extremely frightened by that alone.

I leaned back as I sat, staring at the man. In truth, there was nothing I could do at the moment, but wait, and keep what little wake he had would be no response to force him to throw up- not that I was even sure I had to at this point. Cold towels wouldn't help, getting the man to wake wouldn't help much but commence the usual struggle to keep him away.

But what bothered me overall as my mind drew blanks, unconsciously squeezing his hand, was the lack of surprise.

It was not because Mycroft had warned me that his brother would fall again, but because, while I'm no genius, I am still someone who has been very cautious of those around me.

The quirks that often proved awful things about who they really are behind the presentation they put forth.

And this was one of those moments. Because Sherlock seemed to have cared less about who walked in and watched as he injected, seeing as to how the door was wide frikin open.

"Stay with me Sherlock." I whispered, face blank as my emotions failed me, my eyes darting away before landing on his pale face. "They should be here any second." I quietly assured, not as if could hear me.

And if he could, I could bet he found that very delightful since I was pretty sure he didn't want to die. No, not like this. Risking his life, always, but to end it in such a manner? Never.

The man may have sulked to the point of complete silence for a collection of days. But never was he suicidal in the sense of doing something to himself to end it.

I called his name again, quietly, as I reached up to remove a stray curl of dark hair that didn't fit along his forehead quite right, my mind not wanting to even see him as disheveled despite the current presentation.

But from the neck up, he looked to be taking a simple nap, save for the blue tint in his lips that progressively saturated hue.

This calmed my nerves enough.

I had forgotten that I was holding onto his hand still, and let go, both on the floor, collecting the needles to place elsewhere, my eyes to the ground the whole time, as I decided to start some sort of conversation, hoping to get a response, shaking him every other few seconds till I got a minimal grunt from his end, like a frustrated kid who didn't want to wake for school.

"Do you remember how we met?" Really? That's all I could come up with? Our meeting wasn't even sentimental in the least. It was odd, and not something I really didn't want to remember, even though a basic day with this man is just a rant of deductions. I shook my head lightly, sighing. Harry, my sister, would be recording this if she were here, to prove one of her misguided points.I slapped him lightly again, a couple of times more, my eyes steady on his face and shallow breathing as I realized how farther delayed his responses were."Sherlock?" As a doctor, I had come to face a lot of people who came in because of drug abuse, but most of them were stressed women, suicidal business men, skin heads- but never a man of Sherlock's I may sound calm, but I assure any witness, I wasn't.

My lips pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed, as I gripped his shoulders and shook him no matter caliber, no matter how extraordinarily inhuman Sherlock he was-, I cringed, -he is, he is still human.

His body still functions as it normally should despite his constant neglect.

It was not a hard lesson when I learned my career- drug related issues that is. So I knew Sherlock would perhaps fall into a coma if I allowed him to lay there till his responses no longer came.

My jaw flexed as I gripped his thin shoulders and harshly shook him more. "Sherlock!" I shouted through pressed teeth. "No, no no!" I growled, my temper losing itself, as I began to glare at the man, shaking him roughly. "Come on, don't do this to me." I muttered to myself as I pulled my hands from his shoulders and took upon the arm that hung from the couch, eyes to his pale wrist as I took his pulse, glancing to his emotionless face from time to time. I cursed under my breath, not being able to find a pulse, eyes directed towards his neck as I firmly placed two fingers against his jugular.

My eyes slightly widened. Not good. My head lifted, attention completely directed towards him. "Sherlock?" I panicked, cupping his face, my face tilting lightly from side to side as I looked for any sort of response. "Come on Sherlock," _Open your __**bloody **__eyes! _Looking for even the slight muscular nudge of the side of his brow. "Sherlock!" I shouted, trying to stir him.

There was no response.

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><p>AN-

And here I was hoping I'd avoid any angst or off trail stories and concentrate on general ideas.  
>My was I wrong, after reading other fictions.<br>It seems that my other was too boring, since it branched on general and hardly any signs of progress even though it was in the beginning of things.

Anyways, no slash. I don't intend on pairing the two. I like them as friends, despite my pairing at times, I just don't want to do that.

I didn't like how uncaring I made John seem though, even though, if I wrote it in the 3rd person, I might have made it much more emotional. But it dawned unto me, he's a professional at his work. He's seen plenty of this, and worse. First thing we're taught at pre-med is to not panic when we need to treat a patient, because we wouldn't be able to think straight.


	2. Calm Before Chaos

BETTER READ IN ½ FF WIDTH FORMAT(option should be on top right corner above text)

**A/N-** Thanks for the reviews. This one's pretty long.  
>In the past I would always get lectured in my writing because at times it would be poorly structured, in a sense, scrambled, and then would be I write, it's basically what comes to mind as I'm writing, so essentially, my thoughts, so I can get why it gets confusing. If my writing gets confusing in structure, please tell me, because it happens usually.<p>

**Giuseppe123-**_ "I love stories about Sherlock's addiction!"  
><em>Same here! I wrote one because I can hardly ever find any, sadly. And unfortunately, I won't get the thrill of reading one since I'm writing one -sadface-.

So writers, get on to writing stories about his addiction! Now!

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><p>"God dammit!" I muttered as I stood, racing to the door downstairs as the knocks became louder and the paramedics announced their I even paced the stairs, however, I had seen the lights from outside flash harshly in the early morning hours, the sky yet fully alive with the suns color.<p>

Great, I had thought as I jogged the stairs. The cops, as usual, were called into the situation to conclude a report that they would later turn in with the patient being strolled into the ER. I could only hope that D.I Lestrade was hardly at a position to be notified of something that shouldn't extend to his services.

But then again, this was Lestrade. The question behind the 'how's would be as pointless as questions Mycroft's every detailed knowledge about my life and Sherlock's in our flat that hardly had exposed windows, and when we were running around on a case.

I hastily opened the doors and stepped aside as the paramedics gave me a slight nod, I pointing towards the stairs with no further instructions- it wouldn't be hard to miss. They ran up, some uniformed cops running up behind them, they giving me no attention, and thankfully, hardly familiar from the usual police that stood at the cases me and Sherlock would… 'visit'.

Waiting for them to get up a few stairs, so it wouldn't be so cramped, I followed them, my heart racing as I realized how serious the situation was becoming.

Maybe I was facing a bout of psychosis a few minutes ago, and was slowly starting to realize that this was real.

I reached the room, eyes looking to the surrounding cops, just two, who stood and watched Sherlock for a moment as the paramedics got to hearing my steps, the female of the two looked to me, double glancing, her blue eyes piercing, blond hair with dark roots pulled back into a clean bun at the back of her head, under her cap. "You called this in?" She asked with a rather bleak tone, professional, it working well with her attractive appearance. I shook my head, that didn't matter right now!

I nodded.

She looked to her male partner, who nodded in return, flipping open his notepad, ready to take my testimony.

"So," She started, nudging her head towards Sherlock. "What happened?"

My heart was pounding now. What happened? I looked to my flat mate. I had to keep my voice steady. I turned away before the fear reached my expression, wanting to seem somewhat stable and affected- least they think I was involved. Bless them if they thought I would ever do this to Sherlock Holmes.I shook my head lightly, recalling the events. "I woke early, around six a.m, got ready to go out and buy some food for breakfast. I forgot my phone and came back to get it. But as I was headed upstairs, I saw him laying on the sofa, syringes on the ground."

At the mention of syringes, the female cop looked at her feet, looking around when she couldn't find them."No, no, I put them on the coffee table." I directed with a finger.

She glanced at me before looking down and behind her. Spotting them, she nodded, and looked to me."So," She slowly started. "I assume the door was open then, if you passed it and spotted him. You didn't open it." Her brow furrowed. "So am I to guess that he opened it while you were out, you opened it when you came back, or was it already open?" She asked, eyes narrowed, observing me.

Oh great. I'm not a suspect to an all obvious situation.

"No, the door was already open, before I left." I clarified, mentally sighing as I already expected her next obvious question.

"So, if the door was already open, why didn't you notice this the first time?" She asked.

Did this even matter really? She must want a promotion.

"I was in a rush, I thought he was in his room, hardly did I glance into the dark room."

She placed her hands on her hips as she observed the room, looking around, nodding slightly, then, landing her eyes on my face. I must have had some rather odd expression since hers loosened a bit. "Oh," She seemed taken by surprise. "No, don't worry, we're not suspecting you. I'm trying to get the time in which this man took the drugs." She smiled lightly, looking to Sherlock, tilting her head lightly. "I'm no medic, but I've seen enough to know the status of one when I see one, thanks to being 'round the paramedics."

As she finished, one of the paramedics got up after muttering a few things to each other, no bother etched in their face, save for a small sign of panic, which was most likely why they now rushed, one standing to collect the syringes as the other raced down the stairs to bring the gurney.

"You," The female cop looked to her partner, who stood stiff, pen still on a held notepad. She tapped on his shoulder lightly as she nudged her head towards the door. "Go help that guy bring the gurney." She demanded. The male just sighed and nodded, putting the notepad he was bothered by bringing it up, I wonder how he'd feel about carrying one with a body on it down.

She watched him run off, until he was no longer in her line of sight, her eyes looking to me. "You seem rather collected." She stated, looking back to Sherlock, as the other paramedic got back to lightly treating him. "So, not a couple." She nodded, looking back to me. "Not flat mates either?" She asked.

Well, we obviously lived in the same building. I guess she meant if we knew each other."No," I added. "I mean, yes, we're flat mates." I shrugged. "I'm just, well, I'm a doctor. I need to stay professional." I trailed off, looking to Sherlock, wondering why I kept myself as such even as he was getting treated, no longer needing to act as a doctor, but now being able to act as a friend.

She only nodded, brows risen. "That's nice." She chided, clearly losing interest in conversing at all now.

Her mouth remained shut until she had to continue her job, ordering her subordinate around as they lowered the gurney orange pad to the ground, ready to lift Sherlock and lay him onto it.

I grimaced as I noticed the lack of gentleness as they held him from his shoulders and ankles, counting to three as the slid him from the couch and onto the orange pad, strapping him in. They counted again and nodded, reassuringly, as they began to carry him out, slowly, cautiously, towards the narrow staircase.

I followed, as the continued, keeping a weary eye, hoping they wouldn't trip, lips sealed shut, as I proceeded outside with them, watching as they placed him on the gurney that waited by the door, it's metal legs bent.

Upon laying Sherlock in it, they lifted it, and carted it towards the ambulance doors, bending the legs again to get it into the back with ease.

I continued towards them, but one of the paramedics that sighed looked to me as I approached, and, while removing a purple latex glove, put a hand out. "Sorry sir, but you can't ride along."My brows furrowed as I looked past his shoulder. "But I know him. I'm the one who called-""Family only sir, sorry." He interrupted, seeming bored, this speech all to natural to him, having perhaps said it too many times in the past. "We're taking him to St. Thomas' hospital, since the nearby ones are stacked. Just go up and ask for the room number once things get settled." His cockney accent was thick. He looked to the streets and nodded towards something.

I looked, it was just a continued, looking to me as I returned eye contact. "I'm pretty sure if you hail a cab now, you'll get there as we arrive."That was all rubbish though, ambulances had traffic privileges. Raising a hand to pat my shoulder, he pursed his lips with a small smile, and nodded towards me as he walked away. "We'll keep him alive and safe. Don't worry, we've got things under control." He tried to reassure.

But for bloody sake, I'm a doctor! I thought about yelling that, but I knew it would hardly climbed into the back, his weight shifting and lowering the ambulance lightly, and closed the door, leaving me there, standing, watching, as the lights came to life as the siren, it quickly driving into the clear morning street, and racing off.

I hadn't even noticed how far up the sun was now, laminating the streets, as it slowly registered in my foggy mind.

Before the ambulance was out of my line of vision, I raced to the road and hailed a cab headed in that direction, telling him the hospital name as I sat in, demanding that he hurry.

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><p>I wasn't allowed to see him for hours. Which wasn't unusual with cases like this. But now I could relate to the impatient family members who would argue with the doctor and nurses to let them through to see them.<p>

At first I tried the 'I'm a doctor' approach, but I realized this wasn't the hospital I worked at, which was Bart's, and I didn't have my card with me. I just basically rushed out with what I was wearing, and someone, I had forgotten that along with my phone I didn't have my wallet either. Careless.

The irritation was probably apparent on my face, because whoever looked to me would turn away, something I saw common in others who impatiently sat in the waiting room, to share that sentimental feeling of understanding amongst another, through eye contact.

While sitting in anticipation, I also sat with some concern not only for Sherlock's condition, but about who would come in to 'visit'. Would Mycroft put down his work and rush over? Later to lecture me about how he was right and how I was a horrible doctor to not see this coming.

But that would insensible, since I barely knew the man I lived with. I knew the Sherlock everyone else knew- the rude man with a high ego and IQ of at least 190, who could ensure he knew where you went for your vacation not because of common sense but because of the shirt you bought overseas, not due to the design but because of the fabric. Who could tell you what happened to a corpse from the moment they woke to the moment they died- sometimes just batting his eye towards them, or taking his 2 to 5 minutes to observe.

I didn't know of his past, how he became who he is rather then the Cole case in his early ages. I didn't know of his habits, or why, until Mycroft called in for a recent meeting. However, during Lestrade's 'drug bust', when Sherlock kept me from defending him, he looked at me with a look that only said to hush and shut up, not because he wanted the others to start talking, but he was being honest with me. I'm sure anyone watching would have caught on with that expression.

"A Mr. John Watson?" I heard the rather middle aged female distracted voice call to me. I looked up, noticing how she read off her clipboard as she reassured what to say or where to direct me, et cetera.

I nodded as I got up, putting my hand up. "Here!" I said as I walked towards her. "That's me."She looked to me and nodded, no smile on her aged features. "Yes. Well, you're here for a Mr. Holmes?" She asked, accenting the last name lightly, not sure how to say it. When I nodded, she continued. "Right, well, he's lucky to be alive." I inwardly sighed, what a relief, but what a dramatic line. I nodded when she didn't continue. "Alright. Can I go… See him?" I asked. She nodded and nudged her way towards the elevators behind the secured ER parting doors. "We've moved him to ICU, since we already did all that we needed to do." She continued as she began walking, flashing her card onto a reader and waiting for the doors to open, not looking to me as they did. "We haven't gotten a response however. He's been out cold since he's been admitted." She said flatly, the corner of her mouth tugging downwards lightly.

I nodded and looked away. That wasn't entirely good news.

As we walked, I didn't talk to her, and likewise. She would pass by her employees and tell them what to do, or answer their questions, as we paced to the room, not in anticipation of course, in her behalf- only because she had to get on with her job.

"Here we are." She presented a closed door, placing the clipboard in a bin right next to the it. "We have yet to establish that he's comatose. But it's starting to seem like it's the case." She shrugged. Way to show some heart. Would I sell my soul to that side at some point as a doctor? I hope not.

"Thanks." I nodded, giving her a small smile of thanks as I walked into the room.

She nodded. "No problem love." She sighed as she turned and walked away in a hurry.

Watching he pretend that she had something more to do, I finally turned to look at the door, feeling my heart suddenly race as it felt as if someone pushed me against the chest. Shaking it off, I looked to my feet and sighed, raising a hand to the knob, turning it, while opening it slowly, peeking my head in, expecting to see the man wide awake, staring at me in all his self proclaimed glory.

But instead, I met with what I last saw, only now in light blue scrubs- his eyes closed, as he sat upright against the bed, sheets reaching to his waist as his head rested on a pillow perched against the angled bed, face upwards, hands to his sides. Propped up well it seems.

At least he looked better.

His lips no longer had that blue tint, and his face wasn't as pale, well, paler then the usual. His breathing was labored, but in an appropriate rhythm to his sleep. At least he didn't need machines to force him to breathe.

So far so good.

I looked around the brightly lit room, the amount of light annoying me.

Turning towards the wall where I predicted where it should be, I found the light switch and turned it off, heading towards the window, that was thankfully there, and opening the curtains lightly, allowing the dim sunlight in, the sky a light shade of pink.

Sherlock had taught me that when the sky had a hue of pink as the day passed, it meant it would most likely rain.

Turning away from the window, I looked to the chair where I expected it to be, and took a seat next to Sherlock.

Settling myself, scooting myself a bit closer, once satisfied, I clasped my hands and hung them in between open legs, elbows resting on my thighs as I slightly hunched over, eyes towards my feet as they shifted lightly against the dull tiling.

Looking to the monitors, to the IV, to the needles, then finally to the mans face, I shook my head, and sighed.

Another few hours passed.

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><p>There was a light twitch of the fingers in his left hand, then they gripped as his head turned lightly, jaw flexing as his lids tightened, refusing to open.<p>

I was almost asleep by the time he started to groan in frustration; my head falling against its resting place, which was the uncomfortable heel of my palm. I had to blink many times to acknowledge the situation, mumbling the words 'hold on, hold on' as I nearly jumped from the seat and towards him, fully awake, my profession overcoming my senses.

Coming to a stand, I buzzed the nurse, looking to him as I did, calling his name lightly to force he wake up.

His eyes would roll lightly at first, his lids hiding them again as he fought against sleep. After a few times, he managed to keep them open, blinking furiously as he glared into the dim room, head still against the pillow, body leaning against the angled bed, grey eyes darting until they eventually landed on me, his hand motioning towards his throat, as he hoarsely whispered "Water, water.", while clearing his throat lightly. Nodding I looked towards the nurse who rushed in, already asking how he felt, as I excused myself to get a cup of water, glimpsing towards her as she placed a cube of ice on his lips, Sherlock too much in a daze to completely reject the stranger touching him- which I knew he despised, no matter who they were.

While walking, I half expected to see Molly rush down the hall, - and I nearly panicked when I spotted someone who strongly resembled her-, but it wasn't. This wasn't Bart's, so there'd be no reason for her to roam the halls here, especially in if it wasn't one, it was the other. I nearly raced away and head back towards the room when I spotted Anthea, who was looking to her phone, as usual, her head raising as a wandering nurse asked her a question, probably telling her that phones weren't permitted because they "could mess with the machines."

As she nodded the nurse off, her head seemed to slightly turn in my direction, which made me steer into another hall, but I doubt she saw me- perfect timing only happened in movies or TV.

However, just as I reached the water dispenser, I got a text, and, comically enough, it was from Mycroft, asking me about his brothers status.

Sighing I put it away as my other hand held the cup in place. I would reply , I needed to talk to Sherlock, get things sorted out, before I cared about others at all.

The phone buzzed again, and sighing, I pulled it from my pocket to read the new text.

_'He's not your full responsibility, you know…?_

_MH'_

Flexing my jaw as I shook my head lightly at the rhetorical question, I didn't fully question how he began to guess my train of thought, as I shoved it back into my jacket pocket.

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><p>I knocked on the door lightly before I walked in, as if it mattered. But I half expected Anthea standing in the room while Sherlock glared at the wall.<p>

But when I peeked my head in, I only saw Sherlock, his eyes to the window, sighing as soon as I walked in with a cup of water.

Seeming begrudged, he looked to me. It was almost a staring contest, until he held out his hand, and I walked to him, handing him the cup.

I encircled the bed and sat on the seat I had occupied for hours, leaning away as I turned the chair at an angle in which I could see out the window as well.

It took awhile, but I finally decided to stir up a conversation. "How do you feel?" I asked, trying to keep the venom from slipping into my tone, trying to seem concerned, which I was, rather then angry.

"Fine." He simply answered, placing the empty cup on the bed, not minding as it tilted over.

I nodded as I looked to him. "Well, that's good." Resting my elbow on the arm rest, fingers against the corner of my mouth as my thumb supported my jaw line, and my index finger lay over my cheek. I nodded again. "That's good." I look to the ground, fixing my expression as I realized I was lightly glaring.

He nodded, sloppily, looking ahead. "Yes. It is, John." I wondered why the hell he was irritated. I looked away, lowering my head, letting out a small huff of a laugh. "Do you even realize where you are Sherlock? What happened? Why the hell you're here?" I stated calmly, eyes narrowed in thought. "You overdosed. On drugs." I grit my teeth. "As a doctor, I've seen enough of these cases. I expected the worse. The signs were very strong." I sighed loudly, but harshly, disappointed.

His bright green blue tinted eyes looked to me, staring after my hardly informative statement. And I knew, just knew, he saw into those with barely a flicker of emotion, he quickly muttered- "I wasn't going to go into a coma, John." He stated, with too much confidence, not rare for this man.

My eyes widened slightly, brows raised. "Oh?" I smiled, huffing out a laugh. "And," I paused, bowing my head as I scratched at my brow. "And, why's that, exactly?" I looked up, head tilted lightly, eyes narrowed, tongue quickly licking my lower lip as I waited for his all too knowledgeable reason, which as of now, was utter crap.

He nodded once and looked away, already reading all he had to from my face. "Because I wouldn't allow myself. My brain's too strong for that. It's like when you get sick, you enforce the illness by realizing you're sick and enforcing the thought of feeling ill." He breathed out from his nose heavily. "But if you learn to control your body, in a sense, your immune system strengthens- as to why I avoid medication when ill."

My mouth opened lightly as my brows rose and my head tilted slightly up simultaneously, eyes darting across the ceiling as if God was there ready to shrug with me while shaking his head helplessly. "Ah," I lowered my head looking towards the door, huffing out a laugh. "Mind over… Matter," I thought and failed to substitute the latter word. "Here we go again with that." I shook my head lightly. "Why didn't I think of that?" I asked, my sarcasm thick, voice light with didn't even look to me, eyes glazed towards the closed room door. "Why would you? You're a doctor who obviously knows of the human body and how it works. You're knowledge limits however, because of all those books and studies. Never looking father then that." He scathed at the word 'limits', expression engrossed by the thought of learning something in school that didn't depend on being so open minded but direct and conclusive.

I nodded a few times, looking to him as he rested his eyes, me pretending to consider his words, but then I shook my head as it lowered. "Believe what you want." I added thickly. Oh no, it was boiling up. My laced fingers tightened. I rose my head quickly, glaring at him. "But you overdosed on heroin, Sherlock… Heroin!" I spat, yelling appropriately for the proximity of this room.

He looked to me.

I continued. "This wasn't some little cold that you could supposedly overcome with your massive brain! This was a drug overdose! And you want to build some inner confidence by telling me you overcame it because you're intelligent? Because your some genius?" I looked around, he didn't look away, no doubt observing me for his next point. "Look at where we are Sherlock. Look at where you are. You're in a hospital bed, because you're massive brain couldn't overcome the drug that was killing you. And you want to convince yourself…" I paused, calming the volume in my voice. "That you're some superhuman who didn't need me to call the paramedics, to save you and flush the drugs from your system?"

I was loosing my patience, coming to a stand as I directed my next point, the chair no longer comfortable as I grabbed hold of the IV, glaring at the man who kept his eyes to me. "You want to tell me, that you could have simply overcome it, when there's a needle in your hand, feeding you fluids?" I flicked at the bag, making my point as I paced away from it, trying to control my temper.

Surprisingly, he said nothing as I paced in circles, arms crossed against my chest.

So I continued as my voice settled to that of a conversable tone. "You could have died. You would have died." I glared at whatever my eyes landed upon as I turned and continued my short pace. But then I stopped, and faced him, glaring. "You scared me half to death!" I finally admitted.

This caught his curiosity more as his head tilted forward lightly, eyes to me, hardly blinking. It would have crept me out if I wasn't so familiar with his mannerism already.

"You're worried, and you're angry with me." He stated, hardly deducing the already obvious. "I'm not sure if that's a healthy mix." Sherlock sighed.I could only stare at him, mouth slightly agape_. 'No shit, Sherlock, I am!' _I wanted to shout. Was this all really foreign to him? So much so that concern and anger mixed into one as being presented was something he had never, or hardly, witnessed?

Shaking my head I head towards the door."Where are you going?" He asked, his tone a bit pleading, as if he didn't want me to leave- and if that was the case, then it was probably to save him from the sure boredom that was to come in an already dull surrounding.

I didn't even turn to him as I swung open the door. "I need a coffee." He grumbled, loud enough for him to hear, before I stepped out and into the hallway, hardly slamming the door behind me, reminding myself where I was.

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><p>My surroundings were hardly familiar, but still, recognizable. The way the halls mapped out were far more elegant then Bart's, along with the general appeal, save for the rooms; so navigating wasn't anything too confusing.I had managed to find a doctor's lounge room that I had snuck into, acting all too familiar with the usual performance of recognition, rather then looking like a lost moron who didn't know where to would usually stare at me in question, but I paid them no mind, and soon enough, neither did some point I expected that the man in security clad was there to kick me out, but he just nodded in my general direction with a untrained smile as he poured himself some coffee, lightly tipping the cup towards me as he continued on his way.<p>

I just returned the smile lightly, my eyes looking away as he passed, but darting towards him as he reached my periphery, body turning against the chair as I recognized him, a loud sigh tearing from my throat as I closed my eyes in frustration.

He just sheepishly smiled back at me, already expecting my gaze.

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><p>AN- I feel like I won't get any reviews for this chapter. It was long, way too descriptive, possibly boring. But it would still be nice. It shows me how many people want me to continue- because I'm very lazy when it comes to typing stories with my medical studies. So people showing that they want more puts me to work. Thank you for reading.  
>Also, it gets even darker later on. And I mean very, very angsty. VERY lol.<br>Sorry for any blanks or typos. It's 8am. I have yet to sleep. And I think you lot have waited long enough for an update.  
>It's hard writing in the 1st person in a way. How am I doing writing in Watson's POV?<p> 


	3. Lucky Man

**BEST READ IN 1/2 STORY WIDTH [option on top right of document]**

**A/N**- I don't even understand why I'm so tired when it's so early (it's 1:56am, which is very early for me considering I sleep at around 5am). So I apologize if this is dull or messy -_-. Title inspiration from the song Lucky Man by Sun Kil Moon. I had this chapter ready a few days back. I just didn't upload it because I was trying to get done with other chapters. So that the wait wouldn't be too long.

Someone was kind enough to 'flame' reply to me about my request on page width. Kind because that's something stupid to get on me about. The reason I suggest it so much, is because the way I write is in a 1/2 story width measure page- meaning that any sentence breaks, paragraph ends, etc, are written to fit a 1/2 layout. Sometimes if read otherwise, it gets confusing to the reader. But that wasn't my intention.

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><p>He looked over his shoulder towards his assistant, a half hearted note of acknowledgement as he asked her to leave us, handing her his annoying prop and demanding she leave it in the car. He then turned to me, and broadened the signature smile.<p>

I only cracked my neck and rotated my shoulders once as I turned away and faced the opposite direction in the seat I occupied.

"They were going to kick you out, you know? But I asked them to let you stay." He told me, with that annoying voice that always held just too much emphasis in every word like a crooked villain.

"Well, how kind of you." I muttered, uncaringly, not even looking towards him as he approached me.

He only huffed a laugh, looking down as he encircled the table, brows raised as he took it upon himself to sit as well. "Oh, come now, John." I grimaced, he didn't usually call me by my name. "I'm not here to interrogate or lecture you." He lightly grunted as he took his seat, his smile leaving, not looking towards me but towards the door, then to his watch, then finally to me. His smile returned. "I've reserved the room for a little chat."

My eyes lifted from the table, trying to seem rather happy about the news, but failing in an awkward mess of exhaustion and irritation. "I only expected as much." I chided, putting in a false smile instead.

He took it upon himself to smile as well, the usual one that accompanied his older face. "Well, I doubt we'd want to discuss the matters of my little brother and yourself among a crowd of strangers who'll get the wrong ideas." A single brow rose as he reminded me.

My eyes looked away from him, head turning lightly to the side then up as I considered his words. "Well then, Mycroft, what do you want to talk about?" I shrugged my shoulders, too tired to completely understand the situation. "Surely you already know what's going on. What do you want from me?" I was detesting the dryness in my mouth, my eyes burning with lack of sleep.

Mycroft looked towards the ceiling a moment, considering his words. "I had warned you about this." He seemed to say slowly, clearly hesitating that seemingly childish approach of an early warning. His smile was gone, and he too now seemed weary. "When we first met I had tried to make a deal of sorts- to ask that you tell me of Sherlock's every move-"

"Which I flat out rejected." I reminded, but kept the lot of reasons to myself, such as- me not knowing him at the time, it being creepy, uncanny, stupid, and I had just moved in with Sherlock that same day.

He pursed his lips into a bothered smile. "Yes. As I was saying." His smile slowly dissolved. "Surely now you realize why I asked you. I trusted your keen senses as a doctor, to perhaps diagnose my brothers odd mannerisms and behaviors. Surely, he warned you about his negative points, but refrained from telling you his old bad habits?"

For a moment, I stayed silent, my eyes looking away and towards the side, wondering if that was a question. When I realized he wasn't going to continue, I nodded my head slowly. "Yes-" I looked to him brows slightly furrowed. "Yes as in no he didn't tell me." I only knew of some of his idiosyncrasies upon meeting him, nothing that would ultimately tell me much other then Sherlock being a brilliant man.

Mycroft seemed a bit happy about that, but he had surely already known. Because, as odd as Sherlock is, I doubt he'd present himself as a past heroin addict.

"Obviously." Mycroft replied with, a burning sensation in my chest as that insulting comment reminded me of Sherlock whenever I was too stupid to figure out that my mind worked slower then his. I kept the sarcastic smile from my lips as he continued.

He in-took a breath, and looked back to me. "Well, you see, Dr. Watson, my little brother has failed to mention his habits before hand, therefore, I'm sure that you aren't aware of his other little habits."

I shook my head. "Rather then risking his life to catch a criminal, and this, no." My eyes narrowed lightly. "What do you mean by that?"

Mycroft leaned back into his seat, shifting himself with a light sigh. "Well, you see, my brother was never properly sane. Nor was he, or is he, insanely mental. Just," He paused, searching for a word as his gaze fell to the table. "Problematic." He cringed lightly, and I could tell it wasn't because of his choice in word, but rather the history weighted behind it.

Thoughts raced, and I concluded a reason for all of this. "You mean to tell me Sherlock does more then just heroin…?" The idea and my feelings towards it didn't reach simultaneously. It was only at about thirty seconds in that I felt a gaping hole in my stomach.

Mycroft slowly looked up from the table, and nodded once.

I edged in my seat, hands under the table, held in laced fingers that hung in between spread legs, body lightly hunched against the table, staring at him questionably. "Like what?" I asked, or rather, demanded, narrowing my eyes as I tried to read the undecipherable expression of the older and more intelligent Holmes.

He looked to the ground, and seem fascinated by his shoe for a moment, as he considered whether he should tell me, or wait for Sherlock to tell me. But I already guessed his cowardice, and I wasn't gonna have it.

"Mycroft." I seethed, his eyes raising to me. "I need to know." I added, in an almost pleading manner.

And, not that I expected it, he caved.

"Cocaine, morphine." He simply answered like some loyal pet, eyes to me, reading my expression as I fought to keep it from faltering. "And from what I know, he quit smoking awhile back. So that one is off the list, for now, I hope." He seemed to trail off.

But my eyes fell to the table, as they glazed over, as my thoughts began to consume what little energy I had to remain awake. I didn't realize I had stopped blinking until my eyes began to burn.

I blinked furiously, pushing the heel of my hands against my eyes, gritting my teeth lightly as I sighed, placing my hands against my thighs as I looked to Mycroft, who was still observing me.

The emotions that slowly consumed me made me sick, almost instantly.

Cocaine? Morphine? And heroin? If I had known that Sherlock was into that stuff before I moved in, I most likely would have said no to the offer of living together.

I as a doctor, and as a brother, had already known how these things work, how addicts work, my sister being an alcoholic. The problems, the drama, the constant irritation and interventions, the hospital visits and lectures. The mess, the childish behavior, the fights, the struggles.

And the feeling of relieving that hit me hard as I sat there, it making me nauseas as I remembered the feeling with Harry, as I watched my family fail in distress for a single person who was too consumed in her alcoholism to care about the world.

But now it was different. I had moved in with Sherlock with knowing only a few of his bad attributes, and of his powerful invading mind.

I have lived months with him, have solved cases with him, have done things I never would have imagined with Scotland Yard and the first self acclaimed consulting detective.

If Sherlock had told me of his drug habit's the day I met him, then I would have never believed that my limp and leg pain was truly psychosomatic. I would live a boring dull life as a broken man who relieved his battles in his nightmares. Alone and consumed in self pity.

Surely, if I had continued, I would have fallen apart continuously, to the point of clinical depression, where suicide would be my ending point because I'd find nothing fun in life other then drinking and watching dark comedy on the telly.

But me knowing this man, who on the first day of living together took me to see a corpse, only to later be 'kidnapped' by his older brother, then to chase a cab after texting a murderer after an awkward chat at dinner around the backstreets of London, later to defend him on a drugs bust as if I'd known him for months, following him after he had curtly climbed into a cab, only to later be killing a suicidal cabbie driver in order to protect the man I had just met- ending the day with an all too normal dinner. All in a single day.

Not even in my wildest of dreams would I have expected such events to take place in a single day. Or that I would no longer require my cane.

At this point, I thanked the God's I didn't know of Sherlock's habit before hand. But now, I had no place in the matter, as I became deeply confused as to what to do, not only as a doctor, but as a friend.

What to do, with a stubborn man like Sherlock who saw no wrong doing in this, or perhaps did, but didn't quite see the whole picture because he didn't care enough?

The reality of the situation almost made me dizzy, and had it not been for the presence of that surveying man, I probably would have fainted from all this exhaustion- the lack of sleep, proper meals, constant moving about.

What had surprised me, however, was how patient the older Holmes was, probably allowing my thoughts to run as he ciphered the cryptic movements of my facial patterns as I dozed off.

Noting that I was now aware, Mycroft looked away as he adjusted himself in the seat. "So now you know."

He finally said, tilting his head lightly as he looked away, seeming somewhat ashamed in himself for telling the secrets that Sherlock held from me, perhaps waiting until he could trust I wouldn't despise him for trivial reasons such as drug addiction- trivial in the sense that I would poorly judge him for something I had yet received a reason.

He inhaled, as he continued with a stretched out exhale. "And now that you know what his other favors are in these matters, I was bringing forth the offer I had once asked the day we first met." He looked to me, brows risen. "I know that you will flat out reject my favor, but I need you to consider my feelings towards the situation as well. I need you to realize that you can not do this alone." He implied, perhaps noting my already straightened expression as the question came to play again.

But when he added those reasons, to reassure what I wasn't quite seeing yet- which was not only his overwhelming concern for his brother, but the fact that if I had to take Sherlock under my watch alone I'd most definitely snap-, my expression softened.

My mouth would open and close, repeatedly, until my thoughts became words that created an answer. "I'll do it." I felt a pang of guilt and disgust in my chest as I said this, noted in my cringe as my lips twitched into a frown. "But I don't want your money." I added, remembering the catch in our last meeting. I could almost see his premonition of pulling a cheque out dissipate in his stern gaze, but the smile remained.

He lifted his chin lightly as he looked to the ceiling, seeking the doubt in my attempts of seeming not only noble, but loyal. "You do know, Dr. Watson, that money is not an issue with me." He suddenly cleared up, but I knew he wasn't so naïve to think that's what I was concerned about.

But perhaps he wanted to hear me say why I rejected the idea. Anyone with a right mind would. To basically spy on a friend and tend to them every moment of the day, to only report more then what Mycroft's surveillance team could catch for a trade in money.

When Sherlock had first asked why I didn't while adding that I was foolish for not accepting the deal for some money to split for the flat, I had just met him. The idea of him not feeling insulted was almost calming, to think that if I had taken the deal, he would be alright with it. But it was only day one of living together, and I wasn't sure if he was joking. I didn't know until much later that it was his older brother who asked for the odd request.

But I found myself, even know, even while knowing all of these things, not wanting to accept this.

I had found out that Sherlock's income was very stable. So stable in fact, that he could retire now and not worry a day about any bills. It was then that I questioned my reasons for living with him once I found out he was a rich man, and perhaps always was judging by the way he dressed, and presented himself. I doubt you could find such etiquette behavior from a public school boy and some shady college.

I didn't clear up Mycroft's false idea of why I rejected the money. Because he already knew that I had reached a certain stage in my friendship with Sherlock, where my loyalty was now too, unexplainably, thick.

It was frightening just realizing it at that moment, when my brain was becoming mush from exertion. Perhaps that was what he was trying to do.

"Is he awake?"

The question was almost so sudden as I reached out of my thoughts that I didn't know what he was talking about. "Oh," I answered my thoughts audibly. "Um, yes." I nodded. "He's… Stable. 'He hadn't overdosed enough to kill him, much less comatose him." I sighed, rubbing at my burning eyes again, my throat becoming even drier. I hadn't realized he didn't ask me how he was doing.

But he smiled for the additional information, and I could only guess it was because once I stated that Sherlock was awake, that it meant he couldn't visit his brother. Despite the fact that he actually could, it was the older sibling presence in the room that he deemed worse then waking in a hospital bed. But surely Sherlock already realized Mycroft knew from the moment the paramedics banged the front door.

"I expect your first report tomorrow." He informed as he stood from the chair rather sloppily, or maybe it was because he didn't have his umbrella, that served as a modern cane, in his hands, that made him seem weird while moving just as others did. The Homes' brothers were really an unnatural addition in society.

It almost felt like I was in the military again, or at Bart's working the shifts, at the demand from an older man with such a weary expression and such expectations.

Nodding while trying to sit myself up respectively, I watched as he walked around and away.

"I'll be seeing you, Dr. Watson." He chided, and I could only imagine the smile on his face with my back turned to him.

I didn't reply, however, and instead, stayed put. I was so tired, that the table looked like an exceptional rest stop- however, I couldn't, not only under certain rules, but, because I'm pretty sure Sherlock was doing something that annoyed staff to their limits while I was gone- perhaps buzzing in the nurses to deduce them using his sporadic modus ponens.

Sighing, I pushed against the table, the chairs legs squeaking against the tiles as I grunted to a stand. Feeling as if in a trance, I huffed placing my hands in my trouser pockets, heading back towards the ICU room.

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><p>It was a relief, no wait, it was a surprise, hm, hold on, it was shocking- yes that's it, to see that the man was completely still, staring out the window, without any signature of his usual insane approaches to get rid of his boredom.<p>

He only glanced at me when I walked in, humming lightly after acknowledging my expression rather then my presence I could guess.

"Don't think me a saint in those regards, John, it did cross my mind." He said randomly, my mind almost shutting off as my thoughts sped in question as to what, in this long merciless day, he meant.

Sherlock noticed with another glance, and continued before I gave into my bodies desire for a nap. "The harassment of the staff-..." Drifting off, he gave me a double take as his thoughts reached a conclusion to my expression of utter confusement before he cleared himself up, his gray eyes staring at me, like a hawk would to its prey as it observed, perched up high, waiting for to opportune moment to sweep me from my feet and mangle my corpse. "Mycroft?" He concluded without asking me the 'who's' and 'what's' like people would routinely do.

I only sighed loudly as I went towards the seat and dropped myself into it, slouching lightly as my head leaned back and over the back of the chair. I didn't reply or indicate. Just remained silent as my eyes closed, but soon after opened to the loud pat from Sherlock.

Opening my eyes, I realized he was patting a vacant side of the bed, cautiously looking at me. "There's enough room for your head. Think of it as a make-shift pillow for now if you plan to stay."

The idea seemed appealing, but as a heterosexual man, my pride was too thick.

However, as usual, Sherlock saw through my defense as I almost began to decline. "Oh please, John." He scoffed, seemingly offended. "What are you? Some frat boy? Who cares. You need some rest and I'll be damned if I have to hear your complaining later, about a stiff neck because you took it upon yourself to sleep in an uncomfortable chair because I was in the hospital." He rushed his words, staring at me as he cleared all from my tired mind.

Sighing loudly, I nodded once, feeling somewhat bothered as I did as he offered, setting me arms against the bed as I crossed them as a makeshift pillow, as I leaned by body onto them, my eyes closing, and sleep pulling me away.

"Thank you."

I almost snapped into full alertness when I heard the two words leave his mouth. But I was too tired to even open my eyes. "Hm?" I groaned behind closed lips. My eyes didn't need to open to see the reluctance in his body language as he fought to continue his rare display of appreciation.

"For staying with me." He seemed to almost grit his teeth with how hesitant he sounded.

I almost laughed. It wasn't like it was cruel for me to stay at someone's bed for the night. Not like I had anything else to do. And now with Mycroft giving me a helpful hand when this got progressively worse- if it in fact did, as the older Holmes seemed to predict, then me staying was the least I could do in behalf to both. "No problem." I grumbled, failing to notice how my words trailed off, as I fell to sleep.

The oncoming lecture could wait.

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><p><strong>AN**- I wanted readers to notice of Sherlock's last line. Surely you would. And perhaps if John wasn't so tired, he would as well. Sherlock's doing something he rarely ever does, thanking John on a big scale, for everything.

Reviews would be ace :)


	4. Listen

_**BEST READ IN 1/2 STORY WIDTH [option on top right of document]**_

**A/N- Sometimes I make words up.**

**Also, thanks for the kind and helpful reviews! I'll make sure I fix typos along the way if I can. I'm actually considering getting a beta reader. But dunno.  
>Title inspired by song Listen by Set to Sea- I just now (like 15 minutes ago) heard the song. I forgot the original title for this chapter. <strong>

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><p>We arrived onto 221b Baker Street the day after, Sherlock climbing out of the cab just fine, I giving the cabbie the fee, looking to Sherlock as he opened the door, my slow pace eventually reaching him, my back stiff, and my body still tired from lack of proper sleep.<p>

I had forgotten the usual routine in the ICU's- How nurses would continuously run progress observations on their patients to check their status before ensuring their release.

I would wake often to either a nurse trying not to nudge me as she checked the IV's, or to another asking if we were a couple with a very loud and nasal voice, to which I finally woke because Sherlock was starting to make a joke out of it, by fabricating the years of our non existent romantic relationship, obviously because he knew I was awake.

Sitting upright I had looked at the nurse, and I groggily asked that she not listen to him, and that we are simply friends, and that's it, not including that we lived together for the sake of avoiding her suspicious eyes that would conclude nonsense, not that my will to stay by his side as 'just friends' didn't make her eyes narrow enough.

The door to our flat opened, and Sherlock almost barged in, my expression ranging from surprise to question at such a rude display because I thought I heard Mrs. Hudson conversing with another women. My final guess was that Sherlock simply wanted to know who it was our land lady was conversing with, now that he was always on high alert after what happened at the pool.

And after noting his concern for me, which was really quite astonishing, I wouldn't doubt he considered some concealed concern for our kind and caring Mrs. Hudson.

But when we walked into the lobby that led to the stairs, my eyes to Sherlock the whole time, I watched as his cautious eyes examined the other women, with almost a hint of recognition, as the girl didn't even seemed phased by his rough behavior when entering, unlike Mrs. Hudson who seemed surprised enough, jumping and lecturing Sherlock almost immediately.

I would look at the two, from Sherlock, to the young girl, and repeat the motion until Sherlock spoke, to which my eyes finally landed on him, as he gave a small smile and turned towards the stairs. "Come on, John." He suggested, rather demanded, as he turned with a last stern look at the girl, towards the stairs and up.

When we finally got to the living room, he discarded his scarf and long coat, his usual expensive attire that hid under showing, a new suit, the clothing was in thanks to Anthea, -who had brought a bag of new clothing, giving them to me outside Sherlock's room- as if he wouldn't know who bought him such expensive clothing in the first place.  
>It fit him quite comfortably, and I almost found it comical that Mycroft knew Sherlock down to his measurements.<p>

Sherlock didn't seem disgusted as he fixed the suit coat lightly as he paced from one place to another.

"Who was that?" I finally asked, noticing his stride wasn't the usual calm it would be when he had nothing to do.

He had even closed the door to our flat when we got into the lounge room- which he never does, because he detests getting up and answering the door when I'm not around to open it for our guests.

His gray eyes landed on me almost instantly, startling me, somewhat frightened.

I wanted to retrieve my question, but that was pointless, since it was impossible for a man like Sherlock to not care over such trivial matters that came from the mouth of a curious person, unless he concluded it absolute nonsense- then he'd just insult me.

He looked away, spotting his chair and sitting into it, his body now calm, looking to the ceiling. "You'll know soon enough. The only unfortunate thing about her presence is that it means that Mycroft will be here to lecture me soon."

My eyes narrowed at that.

So did that mean that she was dangerous or not?

For a moment I considered that if she was, then Sherlock wouldn't allow the girl to be around Mrs. Hudson, but then I realized who I was looking at for some sense of relief and acknowledgement that our land lady was safe. I paced towards the door with long strides to check on the older woman, but Sherlock only sighed loudly, and I turned to look at him- who lightly rolled his eyes at the door knob and lay his head back uncomfortably.

"She has nothing to do with Moriarty, obviously. Don't worry." He assured. "If anything, she knows and despises the man as much as we do."

_'As much as _**I**_ do_', I wanted to correct, pretty sure that Moriarty was a man that Sherlock despised less then his own brother.

But even with that much cleared up, I needed to know. Now not for our own safety, but for-

"Don't tell Mycroft about her either." Sherlock demanded, my body going stiff.

I let out a small laugh, looking at him as if insulted. "Why the hell would I-"

"Don't play na_ïve_, I already know." He quickly replied.

I didn't even question how he knew, he probably connected it with the expensive change of clothes, my leaving of the room, the fact that he **wasn't** held in the hospital for abuse of illegal narcotics and suicide watch.

I had hardly begun keeping my eye on him with his drug habits and he already knew that I wasn't the only one watching over him.

He gave me a humored smirk, reading my thoughts from my expressions. Of course he would know.

His eyes narrowed momentarily before he looked away and towards the kitchen. "So, how much is he paying you now? Double? _Or_-" He glanced at me then looked away again before I could defend myself. "Although this'll now be like living with an annoying git of a nanny, you're still too prideful and loyal to ask that he pay, or allow him to pay you. So, what, John?" He turned to me, eyes stern. "You're doing this as a loyal and **caring**_ friend_?" He turned away, and muttered the next. "I've got it under control."

I almost laughed at that, walking away from the door slowly. "Clearly." I emphasized as I sat onto the sofa. "How could I have been so _stupid_ as to not see that?"

He looked to me, mouth starting to open.

But I continued. "I mean,_ usually_," I looked to the ground like a defeated man. "As a **doctor**," I added humorously. "I've come to reason out the rational in the irrational when it comes to someone being in a stable state, and have found that all the negative points, above all, are _actually_ the strong points. Like overdosing," I rose my head, glaring at him. "On **Heroin**." I added sourly.

He looked away at the mention of the drug, clearly, not too happy about it either.

"You never share your horrific tales of your_ clearly_ luxurious stay in Afghanistan," Sherlock stabbed. "I don't know why I should ever share my troubled past as well." He wafted a hand as his elbow pressed against the arm rest of his chair, fingers lightly messing with his curls.

I licked my lips and nodded, my head tilted back, eyes darting across the ceiling.  
>So what? If I tell him something of my troubled past, he'll share? Did this man even <strong><em>know<em>** of the Korengal valley? The worst and deadliest area anyone could deploy a platoon of soldiers? The place I frequently rushed to when they called for medical aid, because almost every day there would be casualties?

When the memory rushed to mind, I immediately decided- no. Sherlock would never be the proper ear for such tales. He'd just analyze every bit of it, and decide why they shouldn't conflict with my emotions. He'd avoid sharing anything about himself, by angering me with his snide remarks.

"Because," I finally spoke, looking away, my pride and ego already having been knocked off my shoulders when in Afghanistan, the words I would say next holding a strong sentimental bond in between the soldiers I knew and would tend to. "Because, Sherlock, **_we're friends_**." I said, rather boldly.

It was enough to make him look towards me, brows risen, mouth slightly opened. However, it wasn't the look of surprise.

Instead, it was as if he were humored by my statement. As if I revealed something nonsensical.

"Oh?" His fingers remained still, elbow still perched, as he leaned against the arm rest slightly, towards me. "And do friends pester friends about such petty things?" He seemed to hold resentment in those words.

But it wasn't his building anger that ticked me off this time, it was the fact that he was too much of an idiot to know that the answer to that rhetorical question was 'yes'.  
>I inhaled through my nose slowly, collecting my patience, reminding myself that this man hardly had any friends to care for him.<p>

I considered his words, for a moment, but also, the situation.

His lack of rest, his pale skin, his thin figure. The connecting lines that found their ends to strayed dots. On one hand I could lecture him to the point of him hating me, could say that, as a friend, I'm deeply concerned about his health.

But then, I thought about the time I had lived with him, how the signs were hardly there, and how he could have kept this a secret had it not been the overdose. He was always doing something, even when bored, to not allow it to creep in and settle, to not allow him to go insane, to the point of literally risking his life or the lives of those around him for the sake of being entertained, or distracted from reality.

I balanced it in my head. Should I allow his habit? Surely, as a friend-, no, as a doctor-, I couldn't possibly consider it done, because he was always doing something equally risky or stupid.

But then, on the other hand, I could run him through a very discreet intervention- hide or dispose of his narcotics, make sure Mycroft's men are on Sherlock's track in case he tries to buy some more.

I could tolerate his childish behavior, take a few beatings from the withdrawal, because I doubt a punch to the jaw would equal to the amount of pain in my shoulder.

But, to what extent? Surely, even I have my limits. After heads and limbs in the kitchen fridge and cupboards became another mundane environment, one so odd that I considered the experiments on the dinner table homely.

But would I be able to register a life that few can not tolerate? Even those who profession the field?

Could I honestly do this **on my own**?

As I thought it through, Sherlock had already looked away, perhaps judging by my expressions that I was actually considering his little habit.  
>Perhaps concluding that I would allow him to do such things as long as it was monitored, as if it were a prescription pharmaceutical drug.<p>

"I…" I started, but couldn't find the words.

He glanced towards me, then looked away, realizing that this wasn't the answer to his question, not that he wanted one.

I shook my head. "I can't let you do this." I said, firmly, looking to him, my features stern, the one I reserved for my assistants during the war as I gave them orders.

His brows furrowed, and he seemed to feel threatened, only, he wasn't caving, he was bothered.

As if even I, a former soldier, and doctor, could make this man feel little in my presence- that's impossible. He always overshadowed me.

The only time I saw the fear in his eyes was when he was face to face with Moriarty. When his hand shook as he shot the bomb jacket- that turned out to be nothing more then some _joke_.

"Of course you **can't**." He spat, muttering as he kept his gaze elsewhere, towards the kitchen from the angle his chair faced. "As a doctor you can't. Your license would be taken. You'd live in a flat that held illegal narcotics. You could go to jail for possession."

My brain stopped working when he said that I would go to jail. That_ I_ would pay the price. I ignored his ramblings as I thought about just storming off at such a ridiculous idea. How this man thought I would go to jail for_ his_ actions, I didn't care to know. I focused on his words again.

"The question of the matter isn't if you **can't**, or **_can_**," He paused, turning his head to look at me, eyes calm as he watched me reaction to the following. "It's what you're willing to face in order to stop me." He said, voice laced with humor, tone icy.

I stared at him for a moment, and it took me awhile to realize my mouth was slightly open, that I wasn't blinking, that I was looking at him like he was some unpleasant moron who asked or suggested something stupid- not that this debate wasn't.

Because above all, I knew, just knew, ever so simply, where this was going.

I gathered myself, smirking, nodding lightly, slowly, as I looked to the ground, licking my lips to contain my temper. But that hardly helped.

Face still downcast, my eyes looked up, glaring at him. My words came out slowly. "I've had enough." I said, tone so dark, that even I was surprised.  
>I could tell it caught him off slightly as well, some flicker in his gray eyes sparking for only a second.<p>

I continued, regaining my usual lecturers tone. "I know where this is going, Sherlock. I'm not going to play another one of your stupid little games!" I stood abruptly, his eyes following me. "I've had enough of these stupid narcissistic experiments! These pointless theories!" I failed to notice I was pacing behind the coffee table by the sofa, my arms moving about, expressing my anger. "I've grown**_ tired_ **of having to look after you,** tip-toe** my way_ around_ you as if you were china platter!" I held a hand out towards him. "You're a** bloody, grown man**!" I turned away. "For **God** sakes Sherlock- to think that you want to now make this a_ game_ of_ wits_?"

He rolled his eyes and looked away, like a child who was being lectured as to why he shouldn't play mature rated video games or eat too much sweets.

But I kept going. "What do you plan on doing, hm?" I stood still, eyes narrowed as I looked to him, who yet looked back towards me, I expecting and answer. "Do you plan on shooting up whenever I'm around to make a **point**? Hide stashes everywhere like some treasure hunt? Maybe **overdose** every other day so that you keep a timer on how long it takes me to save you**_ life_**!" The last part came out rather thick, emphasized.

He only inhaled through his nose, greatly, his chest rose, and just as quickly fell as he sighed. He didn't look to me, or reply. He just stared at nothing.

I put on a callous smile. "Great._ Great!_ So sulking now, are we? That's good to know." I mumbled.

Without hesitating, my mind hardly connecting concern with motives, I paced towards the door, deciding that I needed a drink, or just to do something. Mycroft would be pissed.  
>And as I strode, I could care less.<p>

I couldn't give a damn if the flat exploded, if Moriarty was waiting outside with a team of snipers, if Mycroft's spies were ready to report my movements, if the girl who was downstairs was an assassin or some rubbish. Could care less if Sherlock injected some cocaine, or did whatever it is he does. Could care less if I came back to him overdosed again.

Because what the hell, right? This was what it's like living with Sherlock damned to hell Holmes.  
>And I knew from day one I'd never have a moment in my life where I would face a boring life again, and that was granted. But I also realized that I would no longer carry a normal life. What I failed to realize is that I'd miss it.<p>

Forget relationships, forget work, forget safety, forget patience, forget any _normality_, because Sherlock would surely tear those walls down, with bombs. Remove any signs of the barriers existence with acids.

Perhaps, it would have been better if I just left him in the hospital for rehab, enforcing a lie along the lines that no one would be around to keep an eye on him if he left.  
>Perhaps I should've called it in as a suicide attempt to get the poor sod into some pitiful form of punishment. A restricted hell for a whole week.<p>

Who **bloody** cares- I decided. It was only a matter of time that something new and ridiculously moronic would happen.

And for the first time in a long while, as I paced down those steep steps, Sherlock didn't even ask me where I was headed.

* * *

><p>AN- The gears that turn, establishing Sherlock and John's friendship, are notably coming to a stop. And it's not one of those things that come and go. John is looking deep into it this time. He's really tired of it all now.

Even to the point of not caring about Sherlock's state when he comes back. Wonder how this'll turn out.  
>Also, sorry for the wait. Truth be told, this has been ready to upload for weeks now. But I just like having other chapters ready ahead of time so that I could just not concentrate on writing so much. So seeing as to how it's taken me forever to upload, you can only guess I haven't been writing much- and I am to blame for that. My brain has really done itself in presenting it's current knack of not wanting to help me think properly- and that can do so much wrong in writing.<p>

My friend who's reading said this story needs a female. Don't worry, she's not a lover, past or future interest. Not a child of Sherlock, John, Moriarty, Adler, or anyone. She's hardly a central play. She isn't based off me or any of my friends. She's actually in the general series, so she's not an OC. I just plan to modernize her.

Reviews are always kind.


	5. Noyade Dans Drogue

**PLEASE READ IN 1/2 STORY WIDTH FORMAT- BUTTON LOCATED ON TOP RIGHT OF PAGE. STORY WAS WRITTEN IN SAID FORMAT**

* * *

><p>I almost audibly sighed as my eyes caught sight of the familiar body of a very expensive object slowly edging towards the outer corners of the park.<p>

For a moment I wondered because of it's general status if it would just disregard the fact that there was a no zone area for cars past the gates, and if the car would just drive over the grass and towards me with a very attractive female assistant gazing at her screen as if her whole brain was within the mobile rather in in her pretty head.

But instead, it edged slowly, as if in accordance with my pace as I hurried my steps- as if it were going to get me anywhere- not that I would entirely doubt myself. I was a soldier, and running across a busy road like a lunatic wasn't in favor, but if I had to do that, then I would- anything to distance myself from Mycroft's lackey's.

I could almost feel the driver watching me with a drilling gaze, as if he were standing right behind me, glaring over my shoulder- an uncomforting and awkward feeling.

Glancing over my shoulder, I sometimes wondered what gave them the overall green light to move that slowly on a busy street along the side parking lane. Sure it was government, but did it have some large sticker or edge to its exterior that told the authorities to not approach the car?

Surely it wasn't like in Japan when it came to black cars and tinted windows that signaled high criminal organization, as to where the cops wouldn't even approach, afraid of messing with the higher ups. It's not like it's rare to see such a car in London.

I had drifted in my ridiculous thoughts, finding that I was thinking of just about anything to get my mind off Sherlock, the car helping a lot with that as well, that I failed to notice I was reaching the other end gate of the park, leading me straight towards a pedestrian sidewalk, along the busy road.

Stopping just a few feet behind the large gate, I looked towards my right, noticing how the car slowly turned the curb, as if I were a hare watching the predatory gaze of an approaching wild dog out to get me, and any sudden movements would set me off running- not that it wasn't an endearing thought.

I stood at the gate as stiff as a soldier, just waiting for it to park on the side of the road, to wait for my approach- and my was it unnerving, the sheer patience of even deciding to wait for such a welcome party that would invite me to my undesired location- not that I found any location desirable at the moment.

My face remained as stoic as it possibly could, trying to keep the anger from creeping in as the car came to a stop, and I stood my distance, watching, waiting, for the door to open, or for _Anthea_ to roll the window down.

Only the latter happened, and I didn't find myself staring that the woman's round attractive face that was hardly lifted in the presence of sheer mortals, but the face of her keeper, of our nations step father- Mycroft Holmes.

He had rolled the window, but wasn't looking towards me, the light of his cell phone splashing against his aged and pudgy features. "Doctor Watson." He elevated his voice to reach my ears from the 20 foot distance.

I made no acknowledgement.

He finally looked up, face stoic at first, but then suddenly cracking into his usual smile, a true one with false nature behind it- I had realized his smiles were never forced, no, they were genuine by his own means, and if that meant being a complete tit, then by all means, that was what his smile meant.

Facing back down towards his phone, he nudged his head towards his side, towards the empty seats beside him, beckoning me to approach the car.

Looking from side to side, as if to expect a cavalry crossing on the sidewalk by the road, I passed the gate and approached the car with the usual square of my tense shoulders when I required a walk after snapping at Sherlock. "To what do I owe the surprise, Mycroft?" I called out as I closed in closer, wanting to add _'the unpleasant surprise'_, but decided to not be rude since he did nothing wrong other than stalk me during my walk.

He looked up. "Yes," His smile was gone but then returned. "As I'm sure that you are _aware_, Dr. Watson, the reason of my approaching you, myself, concerns my brother."

My jaw flexed and I looked away. Of _course_ it was about Sherlock. This man, his brother, who only approached me when it was about his younger sibling. This man was as stubborn as Stonehenge's stones when it came to approaching his brother.  
>So here I was, embedded between sibling rivalry, concerning a 35 year old male and his 42 year old brother.<p>

Right. What pleasantries. If only my mother could see me now. If only she were here so that I could tell her with so much _enthusiasm_ that I had gone to Uni, medical school, and the army to serve in Afghanastan as a _doctor_, to finally result it to being the caretaker of a starving druggy genius and the messenger owl to his round nosy older brother who _'practically is the British government'_.

"Ah_ yes_," I faked genuine interest in response. "Of course, concerning Sherlock. Have no idea why I even asked in the first place."

His face seemed to fall from in response to my attitude- so dapper the guy couldn't consider rudeness unless it was from Sherlock. But then it lifted, only slightly, with a menacing smile, one that was now forced. "Please, Dr. Watson," He paused, nudging his head lightly behind him. "Do get it. I'd rather we converse elsewhere, especially with you not standing outside the vehicles window."

"**Nope**." I turned my head away in a half shake, turning down his invite immediately.

If looks could kill, then I'd be dead, as he glared, and made no attempt to hide his lost temper- clearly not the type of be turned down when it came to matters of discussion.

I took a step back as I heard his hand grip the doors inner handle, slowly angling it, the door opening rather tensely, and I watched, as if it would break from it's hinges and be tossed at me.

Mycroft stepped out, all 6 foot 2 inches tall and round, his stomach making him look shorter than his brother, but was in fact taller. He looked down at me, **_me_**, a soldier of a lousy height of 5 foot 7 inches.

He didn't sport an umbrella as he closed the door behind him, and I watched this odd occurrence play out as he took an approaching step with a missing peace of his signature. A rather cocky smile of displeasure was placed on his lips. "Shall we take a **_walk_**, Dr. Watson…?"

It wasn't a question, and I almost laughed at the way he said _'walk'_, but I turned and led the way back towards the gates and into the park. I walked two steps ahead, as he tried to be dignified with his own pace.

I looked around, anywhere but towards his general direction. "So what..? Couldn't get Anthea to ride with you this time? Or did the car have a shelf of sweets to keep you occupied as you watched me take a stroll 'round the park?" I inquired, not even glancing over my shoulder, knowing what kind of face he pulled. I knew he was familiar with his brothers insults, but I was sure he didn't like it when someone else made the same offensive comments.

"How are you getting along with Sherlock, John?" He asked, ignoring my comment.

I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting the question to be rhetorical. Surely he knew what was going on, somehow. I'd given up on caring if we were being watched via camera or listed to via bug- his favorite telly and radio channels. I scoffed and let out a small laugh. "Isn't that why you're here? Because I stormed out on Sherlock?" It wasn't much of a question.

He didn't like my deductions, but seemed please that I was not being_ inductive_. He didn't confirm my statement, and instead raised his chin lightly, face stressed, but all the while serious in consideration to his next words. "Remember the promise you made at hospital,**_ Dr._**" He pressed, a single brow raised, his feet coming to a stop, and, in response, as did mine.

But it wasn't to return an understanding gaze, or a nod, or word of acknowledgement, but rather, to glare, and close the small gap. "**_Promise?_**" I looked up at him, who looked down to me. "We made a **deal**. That I watch Sherlock. I said I would, but I didn't promise-"

"Are you saying that you see him as some _house pet_ now?" He interrupted, voice calm, as his brows relaxed, observing me.

My gaze remained, as did his, until I found it unsettling, his words sinking in. I looked away before my head slightly shook and lowered, as I counted to ten, as I tried to compose myself. "Of course-…" I paused, taking a large intake of breath. "_Of course_ **not**." I looked to him. "But I can't-... I can't do this. He's…" I shook my head looking for the right term. "Sherlock Holmes." My arms raised from the sides lightly, unable to refer the man with anything at the moment. "I can't tell him to **_stop_**. He'll outsmart me when it comes to hiding his drugs, and when he's using them..." I grimaced as I insulted my own intelligence. "I'm a doctor, **_yes_**, but I don't know how to deal with-"

"But your sister, she was an alcoholic, yes?" His brows rose, but he didn't accompany it with a bemused smile.

I took to staring at him, peeved but not ultimately surprised that he knew of Harry, or her old habits. I nodded, looking away. "Yes," I looked back. "Yes, but that was different."

"How so?"

"**_Cocaine!_**-" I stopped myself, taking in a large breath. "Cocaine, Heroin, Morphine?" I shook my head, looking to him. "That's **different**. I'd prefer that Sherlock **drink** rather then shoot up narcotics." Looking away I huffed out a laugh at thinking over what I had just said- either way it was bad, but I'd feel like he'd drink less since he hardly consumed anything at all.

Mycroft didn't question by change in expression, I only guessing he already knew why. He looked to the ground, right foot tilting forward lightly as the tip grinded against the concrete. His hands remained in his slack pockets, fingers noticeably moving, missing the grip around the misplaced prop. He looked to the ground. "I understand that what I am asking for is a rather difficult favor to succumb to." He looked up. "I realize that in doing this, your life will be completely taken from you. But realize this, Dr. Watson." He smiled lightly, but not in his usual mocking way, but in a rather guilty, saddened shade of gloom. "Sherlock _needs_ you. You came into his life. Surely I can't **_blame_** you for having impacted his way of living, nor his new found willing dependency in an individual- but now that he's found that he needs you, your options are rather thin."

I turned my head lightly, brows furrowed, lips pursed. I could almost be glaring at the man- but he seemed to deposit it as a look of outstanding confusion- not that I was really following with his redundancy to be straight forward, cryptic, as usual.

He looked away before looking back with a sigh. "He _needs_ you, in his life, John. Just as he once needed Mummy, me, that D.I that's allowed him to play detective- running 'round and 'round the garden like a teddy bear-"

I wondered if that was some Holmes saying. I refocused when he sighed.

"-… When our mother died, Sherlock began to collapse even further. When it came to me, I, already much older and striving in my goals, I could hardly manage, but I did as much as I could- however failed. Then that inspector Lestrade took him in, despite the drugs. Once Sherlock was set free, we honestly believed he was back on track." He paused, eyes glazed over at the memories. But just as he realized he blinked, almost as if shocked, and looked up, brows risen. "And now he lives in a flat with poor income."

I lifted my head and looked away, nodding once- I knowing he skipped the most essential bits of the story- and I wondered if it was because he was trying to keep it a secret, or if he wanted me to slowly find out. This little row was becoming tedious now.  
>I looked to him as he turned lightly, taking a step back towards the side, his body angling as he presented the stationary car far behind him.<p>

He pulled a small smile that quickly dropped. "I also do hope that you realize that my brother is very good and steering people away at the very moment that he does not want them around." Mycroft added, tilting his head forward lightly, tone crystal clear- he was hoping that I understood what he was getting at- and I did.

My shoulders slumped, my face went stone hard, and I paced past Mycroft and towards the car a good few hundred feet away. He just followed, hardly matching my pace, not that it was much an effort due to his long legs. "You're taking me to Baker Street." I stated, much like demanded, my commanding voice from years in training and months on the field lacing through my tense lips that pressed afterwards. I could almost break into a run, but if Mycroft was here instead of around Sherlock, it only meant that he knew it wasn't some other faulty attempt of getting back on drugs.

I swung the door open and slid in to the farther seat, Mycroft following with almost an air of confidence- I was like the jittery kid waiting to be taken to Disney World and he was like the older not giving to much into the excitement.

"Did my brother," He paused, closing the door. "By any chance meet anyone _strange_?" He finished, not looking to me as he settled himself in his seat, crossing a leg over the large leg room.

I looked away, brows furrowed. "No…" I thought for a moment, then my mouth opened, and I hesitated as I recalled. "Well, there was a girl…?"

He looked to me, but no surprise or caution in his gaze. He turned his head lightly, coaxing me to go on. I only shrugged and he sighed. "And did this.. **_Girl_**. Did Sherlock talk to her, approach her?"

"If by approach you mean stared at her as if he was about to challenge her to some tactless game, then yes." I tried to find a way to add that it wasn't a lustful gaze, the girl looking too young for Sherlock's approach.

"And how did she look? Describe her." He questioned with a tone that would seem as though he was busy doing something else.

I looked away trying to recall. "Dark hair. Short. Thin." I shrugged. " Young and innocent? Pretty, different, didn't seem threatening."

Mycroft sighed loudly, I looked to him, he didn't return eye contact. "John, last you two didn't find someone**_ threatening_**, it was Jim Moriarty."

My blood instantly went cold, my gut wrenching. Suddenly I was drawn towards panic at the thought of someone just as or nearly as dangerous wandering around Baker Street.

He seemed to have felt this stir withing myself as he double glanced towards me, his ugly smile coming back to him. "Oh, don't worry John, she might not be a **threat-** well, in respects to Moriarty." His voice seemed to drop. "It would seem my brother has attained a supplier and intends on having her, or him, or them, move into the same building."

I looked away with a light shake of my head, anger boiling. I could almost have laughed.

"He calls them_ 'The Irregulars'_," Mycroft continued. "Kids he manages to find around London streets. Usually around their late teenage years, sometimes adults. I'm sure you've approached them before? Raz the graffiti…_ 'artist'_ and the young woman who lives in the streets?" His brows perched. "They, the vast majority of the irregulars I mean, are his greatest assets, his sources."

I nodded with a light shake of my head. "Yes, yes I know." I muttered, watching Baker Street approach. If the car didn't come to a stop sooner I wouldn't stepped out running despite the momentum. I grabbed hold of the buildings doors handle, only to realize it was locked- not as I left it.

My fingers fumbled as I tried to get the key out of my coat pocket, slightly shaking as I inserted it, turning it with such force I could have imagined the key would've snapped. The door swung open, hitting against the wall with a loud**_ 'bang'_**, Mrs. Hudson opening her door in response with a startled yelp and question, looking to me as I raced up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

I cursed again, the door to our flat closed, locked. "Sherlock!" I snapped, hitting the door. My patience was wearing thin, and my concern was bleeding profusely. I grabbed hold of the knob, turning it forcefully, to no avail. "Sherlock, _**dammit**_, open the **bloody door!**" But I got no response.

I looked behind me, only to spot Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft standing at the curve turning base at the bottom of the angled flight of stairs. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm gonna need to kick the door in." I announced as I took a quick few steps back, ignoring her shrill voice as she began to protest, and with two strengthened steps, my foot kicked out against the knob. The door rattled harshly, the binds loosening lightly. I repeated the movement, and the knob shattered from it's place, the door swinging open.

My eyes landed on the sofa, then quickly towards the arm chairs, towards the floor, but finally landed on the figure standing in front of the window, his height blocking some of the light from outside, remaining still, looking out onto Baker Street.

"Sherlock?" I asked, still pissed, as I closed the distance. He didn't respond, and so I grabbed him by the arms and turned him towards me, letting go, as if repulsed, when I noticed his expression was nothing like the usual man. He was dosed. "Oh for **christs _sake..!_**" I turned away, hand against my forehead as my head fell, downcast, as my other hand gripped my waist.

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson stood at the door, watching, and only the older brother seemed to react properly, shame in every light shake of his head. Rather then turn and walk away as I expected with his body language, he stepped in and approached the arm chairs, eyes to Sherlock the whole time.

I paced for awhile, keeping my previous posture, eyes to the ground, my thoughts running wild, riddled with decisions that met no conclusion. But despite it all, I stopped, and looked to Mycroft, head lifting from the cup of my hand lightly. I didn't glare, didn't look aghast, but neither was I stoic.

He already seemed to know what I was about to say, but as he opened his mouth, I spoke- "I can't do this." I shook my head lightly. My arms dropped to my sides, then lifted lightly, as if mildly presenting the room. "I **can't** do this." I added, with a bit more tone. I looked away, a small huff of a laugh escaping me as I began to walk away towards the stairs leading to my bedroom.

Mycroft tilted his head towards his shoulder lightly, not looking towards me but instead to the ground. "John-" He called out, pausing, expecting a reply, one that I didn't give him.

I didn't care, not anymore. I couldn't handle it.

I had lived with the man for long enough, and I had learned that with every good came a bad.

This was already climbing towards havoc- and although he was a dear friend, I was no saint. I could not, and would not, remain here to clean the scraps.  
>I could not, dare not, watch him kill himself.<p>

And it dawned on me, -as I pulled my duffle bag from my closet, tossing it onto the bed-, dawned on me that I completely lost the will to be concerned any longer.

Sherlock had literally drained me of my proper emotions. Of my life.

He had ruined my relationships- I tossed a few shirts into the bag. He had ruined the flat- a few underpants and socks from the drawers I messily yanked at. My job was at the verge of collapse- I went to grab some slacks, jeans, et cetera.

It was a life of babysitting, day in and out, **_literally_**.

Waking at 3 am to the sounds of him playing his music or starting some new experiment. Having to guide him into being gentle or at least morale in conversations with his _'friends'_ or the victims. Force feeding him, or picking his faint body from the ground whenever the attempts failed.

I waltzed towards the bathroom, which required that I leave my room and head to Sherlock's, -since the master bathroom was in his room-, in order to grab my hygienic essentials. On my way towards, I could hear Mycroft, who now stood behind Sherlock, talking to him with a sharp, failed hushed tone.

I heard what he said, but I couldn't care less as I walked away with my toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, shaving equip, towel and bath robe, without a missing beat, back to my room, which was now turning into a formal residential memory.

I stuffed the essentials in, the large bag still somewhat empty, so I added my pillow to the mess.  
>Satisfied, I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Harry's number.<p>

No way was I staying at Sarah's or any other former girlfriend after tonight. And no way was I going to relieve my stress through drinking. So my sisters was a safe bet- she'd accept the free stay, and there would be no alcohol nearby.

The tone rang, long enough for me to unwillingly hear the conversation downstairs as I tossed the bag over my shoulder and walked down the few steps onto the second floor hall that rounded to the last set of steps headed towards the buildings exit- Mycroft saying something along the lines of _stopping_, of _looking at what he had done_, and _what next_,_ who would watch him_, _what was he to do now_.

And Sherlock didn't even turn, my eyes to his back as I rounded towards the next case of stairs- "They all leave anyways." Was all he said.  
>The words weren't able to sink in as Harry picked up with her usual boisterous tone, and I replied with an overnight request.<p>

I hailed a cab, sparing a glance towards the window Sherlock gazed out from, turning away as the hollow man of a former friend stared down at me, face stoic from where I stood. He nudged his head lightly behind him as he spoke, but I didn't keep my eyes towards him for long as I sat into the cab, his lips unreadable.

The address was given, the hold around my bags strap strong. With a nod, the cabbie drove off, my eyes forward the whole time, fighting the urge to look out the window and towards Sherlock, to see what he was doing now, in reaction to my leaving.

A small smile crept on my lips as I laughed in my head- as if he would even know what was going on. He was high, living life on cloud nine, with a home- and here I was leaving mine, finding shelter in the uncomforting arms of Harry Watson, as if that would resolve the issues- a temporary stay that would most likely end up with me running back to check on Sherlock, or moving back to my dull apartment.

My phone vibrated, and I pulled it from my coat pocket instinctively, pressing the center button to light up the screen. I only had to glance at it to know what it said, my calloused smirk returning as I sighed lightly, stuffing the vile piece of technology away.

"Nope." I muttered under my breath as I looked out the windshield. "Not happening." I added, ignoring the glance that cabbie shot via his rear-view.

I turned to look out the window beside me, the message's words, very uncharacteristic in par to its sender, photographically pasted in my head.

_'Dr. Watson, please come back. He needs you. More than you can imagine_  
><em>-MH'<em>

Everyone had seemed to forget that I needed someone as well.


End file.
